note: Many heartfelt thanks go out to ALL of you who called, wrote, sent cards and flowers. This isn't a sympathy grab, as stated in the email many of you got, it's simply what I've been chewing on for over a month and came up with. It's just me writing after all...nothing new.
A pigeon had been pecking alone, unaware of the peril that was swooping its way down upon it. Unexpectedly and without provocation, two other pigeons pounced on the lowly bird and began furiously and savagely pecking at it. With each thrust of their beaks, the attackers tore shreds from their now helpless victim. No longer finding bullying a necessity, the two aggressors ceased with the frenetic pace, instead opting for a cooperative rhythm. Trading off strikes with each other, the two drummed off a precise cadence of butchery, a tempo of inevitable finality.
And as our finely feathered metronomes of death one-two one-twoed their way through the afternoon, their target had assumed a great nobility and a profound dignity in its soon to be final moments. Not an acquiesence however...no, far from it. This was no pacifistic act.
This was a rejection of the death that was offered and systematically being delivered.
This was rebellion.
And it was beautiful.
Amidst savagery and cruelty and unfair laws of Nature, an innocent victim of the way things can turn out poorly became very much aware of their plight and made a choice.
Choosing not to dignify it...
Choosing not to accept it...
Having to fight back the urge yet once again in the same day to intervene out of sympathy and compassion, having to come to terms with the inevitability of life's expiration and having to deal with the ungratified task of condemning a sentient living being to its final moment, I sat back down on the bench and allowed the carnage before me to continue. I could have ran towards the birds hollering and waving my arms, preventing another death from occuring.
But I couldn't. I can't. It's not my death. I cannot even begin to prevent that for myself or my mother, let alone some hapless random pigeon.
Hapless as it may have seemed, the lowly pigeon had much to offer. And much to choose from. It had a choice. And the pigeon made one.
Choose death and succumb to the blows. Choose a valiant effort for survival that ends up in dying nonetheless. Choosing to accept what is meant to be.
The pigeon picked a different option altogether. It wasn't dead yet...there was still time for choosing and it wasn't going to be a reluctant acceptance.
Instead, choosing to become unalarmed and calm, no longer fighting for its life but now struggling so that its last few seconds in this moment were not violent or frantic, the pigeon had assumed an air of gracefulness and poignancy. When Death ceased to knock heavily on the door some time ago, having already crashed through and was now beating down upon its intended prey, the dying pigeon calmly found its own tempo.
And its tempo matched the dominating time signature.
However...
where the two murderous birds marched on with their military step, consisting only of percussive notes...drums.
The almost dead pigeon had composed a waltz.
A waltz rich with strings, enamoured with lilting flourishes of flutes and a severe lack of timpani, snares, bass drums or any percussion whatsoever.
And after the final movement of the symphony, my sister and I went back upstairs to join our family so that we could have one more moment with our mother.
Cancer isn't a death sentence nor is it an ultimatum. It's a moment. A moment in which you accept the choices before you. And the brave tend to shun the choices before them and opt for an altogether different approach.
They fight. They get mad. They don't let it win. And when they have reached that point, they are no longer driven. They simply ARE.
But they fight not with fists or harsh words. Some fight with wristbands, others with books, or talks with bald heads, regardless, their soul has been stirred to the point where they cannot help but stir the souls of those around them. They choose not to live longer. They choose to live stronger. Even if it's for a minute or a day or a decade, it's THEIR moment and NOTHING is taking it away from them.
My mother chose, as the pigeon chose, not to give up. They both chose to be undisturbed by the impending last moment. To be so completely untouched by what heinous atrocity was plaguing their very existence. To settle down and be okay with it.
My mother made Beethoven seem thin and lacking, made Tchaikovsky seem uninspired, made Baryshnikov seem clumsy and made Mother Nature herself appear to be uninformed.
My sister and I entered the room once again to look upon a dying woman in an uncomfortable bed, only to be truly disappointed.
There are many that say that Love doesn't pay the bills, isn't all it's cracked up to be and is nothing but a recipe for headache and heartache. But Love does do one thing. If you get out of it's way, it can transcend everything that you have yet to learn anything about. I watched my mother's love for her husband and children triumph over the disease that was inside her, killing her. And I watched it let her make her choice.
And she was off, along the Blue Danube, stopping by the Bolshoi, flitting here and hovering there.
One last time.
And she danced.
And it was beautiful.
